


Decadence, Perfected

by CalicoThunder



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluffy Ending, I love dancing Lance, Lance is such a good dancer, M/M, Nightclub AU, feat. bartender!Keith, lmao do 5+1 fics still exist?, so does Keith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 04:59:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9219851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalicoThunder/pseuds/CalicoThunder
Summary: “Y’know, you have to buy something or I'll have to ask you to offer your seat to a paying customer.”Allura scoffed.“I think letting you have that one,” she pointed in the stranger’s direction, “is payment enough.”Keith’s tiny smirk faltered a little as he scanned for the beautiful man again, coming up empty. He said nothing.(Or, five times Keith sees Lance dancing and one time Lance sees Keith dancing.)





	

The first time Keith saw him dance, it was hypnotic. 

 

The constant boom-boom of the music and the perpetual flood of colors in the club had become muted to Keith a long time ago- but when this man danced, it was as if all Keith’s senses were brought to painful definition. 

 

He ignored someone calling for  _ another round, on me  _ and let his eyes and mind wander to the stranger, where he moved with perfect syncopation across the dance floor. Every so often he would get swallowed by the crowd, and Keith would scan frantically until he resurfaced, always in the same spot. 

 

The man was tall, an inch or two above the crowd at his full height. The club’s blacklight fixtures made his teeth shine frost-white when he bared them. Even with the barrage of purples and reds and greens coming from every direction, Keith could see the caramel complexion of the stranger’s face, and when the fog machines picked back up and the room was drowned in the thick smoke, he looked ethereal. 

 

Keith could only continue to stare as the stranger moved, never falling out of time- as if the music itself was his very heartbeat, and the lights and sounds of the club were his blood. 

 

A set of manicured fingernails, painted matte black, suddenly entered his tunnel-vision. They snapped together once, twice, three times and Keith suddenly remembered that tips were a substantial portion of his salary.

 

“Sorry, I- What can I get you?” He turned to face the owner of the hand. 

 

He sighed in relief when it was just Allura, giving him that warm smile that seemed a little colder tonight. Or was that just him?

 

“Some attention would be lovely.” Allura said, slipping onto the stool closest to her and trying not to wrinkle her black pencil skirt. 

 

“Ha-ha. You do know I'm working, right?” Keith said. He cast another glance towards the stranger’s spot on the floor, but the man was masked by the club’s thick energies.

 

She only gestured towards the wall of alcohol behind him, and then to the rest of the club, offhandedly. “Of course. Lord knows bartenders have no time to talk, or relax, or-” she broke off and followed Keith’s gaze into the crowd.

 

“Or stare at pretty boys.” 

 

Keith’s pale skin became pink, and it wasn't because of the nightclub’s heightened temperature. 

 

“Umm… dibs.” Keith managed anyways, weak confidence a result of Allura’s almost predatory gaze. He walked down the bar as he was called by another customer, and Allura waited patiently with an upturned mouth. 

 

Keith came back with a white rag thrown over his shoulder. 

 

“Y’know, you have to buy something or I'll have to ask you to offer your seat to a paying customer.” 

 

Allura scoffed. 

 

“I think letting you have that one,” she pointed in the stranger’s direction, “is payment enough.” 

 

Keith’s tiny smirk faltered a little as he scanned for the beautiful man again, coming up empty. He said nothing.

 

Allura’s hands played with the cropped hem of her leather jacket, fingernails blending into the material. “I'll have a rum and coke, then- oh!”

 

She let strong arms wrap around her waist where she sat, and a sharp chin rest against her shoulder. 

 

“Make that two.” The newcomer said. 

 

Keith had already started on the drink, but turned his head up to see Shiro standing there, nuzzling into Allura’s neck with his mouth. 

 

His mood spoiled rotten then, from its balloon of banter and unbearably hot hips on the dance floor to a sliver of hope at seeing the tan man before night’s end and the prickling discomfort of his ex-boyfriend casually nibbling at his frenemy’s clavicle. 

 

He made the drinks and served them brashly, pointedly avoiding eye contact with Shiro and Allura as they sipped and talked and flirted. After helping a few more customers here and there, the couple was gone, melting into the crowd. 

 

He tried to ignore the way he noticed a certain tall, tan stranger sandwiched between his frenemy and his ex-boyfriend on the dancefloor, and the way that suddenly made him want to shatter all the bottles behind him with a baseball bat. 

 

\--

 

The second time Keith saw him dance, it only fueled the fire that the stranger had started inside him. 

 

He was on the fringes of the crowd this time, dancing casually but still looking just as mesmerizing. His blue button down with the sleeves rolled up had Keith reeling, desperate to trail his fingers across the lithe forearms. His black jeans were illegally tight, complemented by a few rips below the left knee and making Keith want to quit his job and become a photographer. 

 

But tonight was different. 

 

Tonight, the stranger had brought someone. 

 

As Keith had noticed already, the stranger and his plus one were on the edge of the dancefloor, much closer to the bar. Keith saw every move, shake, and grind the couple danced in his peripheral, and he definitely did not spill whiskey on his black v-neck when the two kissed messily. 

 

Whoever she was, she was undoubtedly pretty, and the thought made Keith want to scream. 

 

She had long blonde hair that rolled like the ocean down to her shoulder blades, and her slim torso made her body look as though it was fit for an angel. Her black heels and mini-skirt worked in tandem with her blue crop top, which let Keith catch many a glimpse of her belly button piercing. She danced just as rhythmically as the stranger, in perfect synchronization with him. 

 

Keith wanted to frown because  _ it should be me _ , but a permanent smile was written into any bartender’s job description. He tried to ignore them. 

 

Later in the night, his attempts become one spectacular failure, because the stranger and his girlfriend ( _ they must be together, right? _ ) came and sat right at the bar, directly in front of Keith. 

 

They waited patiently for him to finish with another customer. 

 

He approached them slowly, feeling ready to murder when they both smiled brightly at him. 

 

“What’s your poison?” He asked, praying not-so-ashamedly that the pretty, pretty girl would answer with ‘cyanide’.

 

“Just a beer for me,” she said, and the gorgeous stranger stared at her like she created heaven and earth as she spoke. 

 

“Lance, honey? Tell him what you want.” She turned to him and blushed when she saw his face. 

 

Keith was pretty sure his bones fractured with how tightly he clenched the beer glass in his hand as he filled it. He tried to focus on other things, like the light of the moon shining through the open skylights in the rafters above, or the smell of pot and sweat and good feelings as they filled the club like they did every night, or the fact that his name is Lance,  _ his name is Lance _ -

 

_ God damnit.  _

 

“Same for me, thanks.” His voice is high, almost whiny in its strain and Keith just wants to die. Lance’s eyes are a deep ocean blue, rippling with color and nothing compared to the lasers and spotlights that mar Keith’s skin every night. 

 

Keith barely managed a nod before serving the drinks and rushing to help another woman get her third gin and tonic of the hour. 

 

It's only a few minutes before the beers are abandoned half-empty on the bar and the two are on the floor again, and Keith’s gut fills with fire as he empties their glasses into the sink.

 

\--

 

The third time Keith saw him dancing, it was the product of unfortunate timing (and it wasn't really dancing). 

 

It was Friday, the busiest night of the week, and Keith had developed a mechanical rhythm in the way he poured, shook, and stirred concoctions for a plethora of club-goers. However, even bartenders are human and have to have a break every once in awhile, and somewhere around twelve-thirty in the morning Keith decided to take his. 

 

A five minute break for Keith Kogane generally entailed a lit cigarette dangling from his pale fingers in the alley behind the club, where the ground itself shook from the power of the bass and he could try and clear his head. 

 

Lance wasn’t around tonight, at least not in view of the bar, and the thought made Keith want to kick the wall. 

 

Why should he care? He’s developed a sick sense of want for a man whose last name is a mystery to him- a  _ crush _ , they call it- and now he's outside on what's supposed to be his break, still thinking about him.

 

He kicked a tin can violently and watched it roll across the sticky asphalt. 

 

_ Whatever _ .

 

With that he retreated into the club again, stopping by the bathroom to piss before manning the bar for the rest of the night. 

 

Of course, he'd forgotten that the entire universe was working against him constantly, and he really didn't know why he was expecting different from it when he opened the door to see Lance and his pretty girlfriend going at it. 

 

Like, hardcore, club hook-up going at it. Lance’s mouth was stained the same color as her lipstick, and his pupils were blown wide. The woman was pushing him up against the sink, one hand down his pants and the other fisted into his chocolate hair. He had his own hand up her shirt, the other at her hip, and Keith was heavily contemplating suicide as he realized he couldn't look away from the two.

 

Even the way Lance made out with someone in a dirty club bathroom was rhythmic, hell, it may as well have been a fucking dance routine. Everything about the way he tilted his head, ground his hips, spread his long fingers over her back- it was like his body was in a trance.

 

And so was Keith. 

 

He couldn't even have the decency to hide his red, red face when he knocked his fist against the nearest surface (the bathroom stall door) a few times. 

 

“C'mon, people, get a room or get out.” He used the same tone of voice that he used when cutting off a drunk customer or telling someone to  _ stay on that side of the bar, please,  _ although it’s a little tighter at the sight in front of him. 

 

The couple jerked apart instantly, and Keith could have laughed at their startled expressions if he didn't want to rip both their faces off. Their initial shock faded into deep red embarrassment, faces flushing as crimson as Keith’s psyche when they realized that he was an employee. 

 

He jutted a thumb towards the door to save them all from further humiliation, and the couple walked out with a brisk “sorry, mister bartender” from Lance. 

 

As soon as the door shut, Keith could hear loud laughter outside and was compelled to punch the already cracked mirror above the sink, inhaling the smell of Lance and his girlfriend that was lingering in the air. 

 

\--

 

The fourth time Keith saw Lance dancing, he may or may not have joined in.

 

He was off the clock for the night; it was Pidge’s shift, but she had demanded that he stay at the club with her. Keith agreed (as if he really had a choice) and found himself at the bar for most of the night anyways. 

 

He admired the way Pidge handled the drunken customers, in a much more expressive way than he normally did.

 

_ “Aren’t you a little too young for this place, kid?” _

 

_ “Technically, I only have to be twenty-one on that side of the bar, ass-monger. What’ll you have?” _

 

Keith had always harbored a notion that Pidge was definitely the favored bartender of the crowd, not that he really cared. He was just here to make drinks (and money). 

 

“Hey,” Pidge’s voice carried over the music, “why don’t you get up and dance or something? You’re killing the vibes with your whole ‘apathetic Evanescence’ attitude.”

 

Keith found it in him to laugh. “I’m okay, just tired.”  _ I’d rather talk to you then look awkward and alone in the crowd. _

 

Pidge read his mind, as she does.

 

“You won’t look bad for dancing alone. Besides, Allura told me you’ve had your eye on some cute boy lately.”

 

Keith’s face tinted red, but he flipped his friend off anyways. “He’s taken, I think- but so is Allura, apparently.” 

 

The abrupt mood switch caught Pidge off guard, if the spilled droplets of beer were anything to go by. Keith accepted his drink anyways, meeting Pidge’s questioning glare.

 

“Who?” she asked.

 

“Shiro,” Keith mouthed from behind his glass. Pidge’s eyebrows rose slightly, but she didn’t say anything about it and Keith accepted that, too. 

 

“I’m gonna go dance.” he said, leaving his empty beer glass and Pidge’s sympathy behind. 

 

It all went sort of downhill from there. 

 

Keith found himself deep in the crowd, where identity was unnecessary, a warm body was a warm body, and everyone was just  _ human _ . The center of the dance floor was secretly his favorite place to be, besides behind a bar, or in his bed. 

 

He was already moving as the song picked up, and soon he was dancing mindlessly. He’s no professional or anything, and he certainly doesn’t try hard to cover that up- he’s just here for the good times. 

 

Apparently, so was Lance, because five minutes later the tall boy is swaying in front of him. 

 

He’s got a beer bottle in one hand, which was technically against club rules- it’s dangerous to hold glass while surrounded by eighty people making jarring, sudden movements- and his other hand is slipped into his front pocket. He watches Keith curiously, smirking.

 

Keith meets his gaze and almost falters, but he’s in a good mood now and the beat truly is infectious. He even dares to wink at Lance, flipping around to show off his ass. (Advice from Pidge. She always said it was the best-looking part of Keith’s body, and who was he to argue when he didn’t think any of him was all that great in the first place?)

 

Keith surprises himself with his confidence, especially since he knows that Lance can move like a god. He wonders if the boy is still watching, and his answer comes in the form of a cold pressure on the inside of his thigh. 

 

Lance has come up behind him, moving in time and grinding into Keith’s body. He’s got the beer bottle slung over the top of Keith’s thigh, between his spread legs, and his other hand low on Keith’s hip, grounding him. Or maybe both of them, Keith doesn’t know anything anymore.

 

He feels Lance’s heat press into his back; tonight he’s wearing a tank top and slim jeans, with a backwards snapback on. In short, he looks  _ good _ . It works for Keith, who’s traded in his usual v-neck for a black crop-top to let his skin breathe- but now Lance is touching it, palming over his hip and obliques and he’s most definitely drowning. 

 

The skin on skin excites them both. Keith throws an arm up and over Lance’s shoulder, gripping the back of his neck as he starts really grinding. Lance may have moaned then, but Keith couldn’t tell with the music. His world becomes nothing but light, bass, and the smell of alcohol and fresh tropical fruit. 

 

They keep dancing for a song or three, never changing position and never stopping, until both their bodies finally beg for rest. Any speculation Keith had had about how unusual this was was crowd surfed out the door. He was high, on the music and the vibes and the  _ Lance _ .

 

When they do break apart, it's only to walk towards the bar for another drink, Lance close behind Keith the whole way. They break out from the crowd and Pidge spots them in an instant, throwing a not-subtle wink at Keith as the two sit down. She gets them beers without waiting for their order. 

 

“You look pretty good out there,” Lance says, corner of his mouth turned up. 

 

“You too.” Keith answers. “I'm Keith, by the way.” 

 

He holds out his hand, partly out of propriety and partly because he needs to feel that  _ heat _ again. 

 

Lance takes it. “Lance.” 

 

A thought comes to Keith suddenly, and he takes a gulp of his drink as casually as possible. 

 

“No girlfriend tonight, Lance?” 

 

Lance laughs, obviously remembering the incident in the bathroom last week, and his cheeks heat up under his caramel skin. 

 

“No, Nyma's busy. Boy’s gotta eat though, right?”

 

_ Eat me _ . Keith nods. 

 

“So here I am.” He finishes with a swallow of his beer, casting another curious gaze at Keith. “I never see you here when you're not working?” 

 

The question is not new to Keith. “I don't usually come out if I'm not working.” 

 

“Why’s that?” 

 

Keith smiles for the first time that night. “There's never anyone to dance with.” 

 

Lance smirks too. “Well then, why don't we-” 

 

He's cut off by a vibrating in his pocket, and Keith nearly falls of the stool from halted anticipation. 

 

“Hello?” Lance answers his phone. “Nyma? Yeah. Okay, sure. Now? Okay, babe, okay. Alright. Bye.”

 

Keith winces internally at the one sided conversation, knowing damn well that a whole night to dance with Lance was too good to be true. 

 

“I gotta go, actually- but come around when you're off the clock more often, yeah? Tonight was fun.” Lance says, smiling brightly. He drops a few bills onto the bar for his drinks, and Keith watches him walk away gracefully, nodding dumbly. 

 

“Smooth.” 

 

Pidge has appeared in front of him, watching Lance as well. 

 

“Fuck you,” Keith says, half-seriously. 

 

He spends the night staring at the ceiling, trying to shake the feeling of Lance’s hands and the phantom chill of a beer bottle on the inside of his thigh from his body .

 

\--

 

The fifth time Keith saw him dance, Lance was drunk off his fucking ass. 

 

It started out as an easy night, but then again, they all do. It was a weird schedule tonight- a slip up in management had put another bartender before Keith, shift ending at midnight. This unusual timing had Keith trudging into the club with a scowl, mostly because of the awkward amount of sleep. 

 

By the time he'd taken his place behind the bar, he'd already scanned for Lance ten times. He found him on the eleventh, in the center of the crowd again. 

 

Bitterness set itself in his mouth at the sight of Nyma, here to show Keith what he can never have again and again. She was pretty as ever, almost mechanical in her movements- but Lance was… off, somehow. His moves were sloppier and more lethargic, even simple turns and two-steps. Keith found himself faintly concerned. 

 

_ Why should I be? It's not like he's my boyfriend. _

 

He swallowed the bitter taste, only to feel it stab in his gut. 

 

He resigned himself to mindless bartending, if not just to make sure he doesn’t get fired. This time he actually managed to shut Lance out of his brain, somewhat- a luxury that he holds gratitude for as the night trickles on. 

 

His near-peace is shattered at the sight of Nyma and Lance a few hours later, definitely closer than they were before and apparently in the middle of a heated debate. Keith hears nothing over the music, but after helping one more customer he finds Lance at the bar, head in his hands. 

 

“Lance?” He tries, selfishly resting a hand on Lance’s forearm. 

 

“Hmm?” Lance says, looking up. “Oh, hey Keith.” He gives a pained smile, still unfairly dazzling. 

 

“What was that about? You okay?” 

 

“What?” Lance asks, following Keith’s pointing finger over his shoulder. “Oh, Nyma? Yeah, that’s over. She dumped me, or whatever.” 

 

Keith, for a very known reason, feels his insides flip with sickening glee. He saves face for Lance.

 

“That sucks. What happened?” He throws a rag over his shoulder and places his hands flat on the bar, leaning in because  _ yes, I am the most cliche bartender in history.  _

 

Lance just shakes his head. “Doesn't matter, really. I think I'll just have a drink or two, if that's good?”

 

Keith nods, almost enthusiastic. “Of course. What'll you have?” 

 

“Get me three shots of the strongest shit you have.” Lance says, and Keith’s eyes widen at the bluntness of the order. 

 

“Sure. Is tequila okay?” 

 

Lance nods wordlessly, prompting Keith to get on with it. The bartender pulls a bottle out from the underbar, along with three shot glasses and a pang of sympathy for Lance. Shots poured and in front of him, Lance downs them all back to back with a loud “ahh” afterwards and thumps his forehead onto the bar. 

 

“Anything else, I can do for you, Lance?” Keith asks, knowingly ignoring the customer that’s been calling him for the past minute. 

 

Lance’s head comes back up at that, and Keith sees an idea rooting around in the brown boy’s head. “Actually, yes. Get me three more shots, then come dance with me.” 

 

The suggestion stops Keith dead. He stares at Lance analytically, like he’s searching for a lie- but Lance seems sold on the idea. 

 

“I’m working, Lance. As much as I want to…” he trails off, watching Lance’s stoic face. The boy says nothing as Keith moves to help the neglected customer down the bar. He comes back a moment later, and Lance’s hand shoots out and snatches his wrist, searing his skin deep. 

 

“Keith…” Lance whines the name like he’s known Keith for years. “Come on.”

 

Keith wants to give in terribly. So fucking terribly, but he’s seriously on the job and he can’t call anyone in and he’s not even dressed right-

 

“And I’m sad, and drunk, and you’re hot, and so much fun to dance with.” Lance says suddenly, turning a few heads towards the two. Keith flushes red for what feels like the millionth time, wishing the concrete floor of the club would open up and suck him into an abyss. 

 

“Stop, Lance… I’m…” He trails off, because suddenly Lance is standing, leaning over the bar into Keith’s bubble with half a smile. He smells like mango, Keith doesn’t know why, but the scent is tainted with alcohol and that makes it all the more intoxicating. 

 

“You know what I think, Keith? I think you’re into me.” Keith shivers, looking Lance dead in his cloudy blue eyes. “I think you want me, because you always watch me dance from your hiding spot here and you never say anything. I bet dancing with me last week made you so happy.” 

 

Keith finally averts his gaze after that, because  _ fuck, _ Lance was being as asshole, but  _ fuck  _ he was right. Keith does want him, wants him so bad, and he’d been suppressing the feeling for weeks in attempt to tell himself that it doesn’t exist. But here, with Lance panting in his face, tipsy and flushed like it’s his first time drinking, Keith is finding it very difficult to not hoist the boy over the bar by his collar and absorb him.  

 

“You’re making a scene Lance. If I could call someone in, I would-” and he means it, because this boy who he hardly knows has got him whipped like a racehorse. 

 

Lance doesn’t respond, instead grabbing for the bottle and pouring himself three more shots. “Come on, Keith. You really think I care what these people think of me? Of us? I can make you come right here, on the bar.” He breaks to take his shots. “Right,”  _ dip-clack _ “fucking,”  _ dip-clack _ , “now.” And the final shot ends with a final  _ dip  _ of his head and  _ clack  _ of a glass on the bar _.  _

 

Keith is blushing harder than he has in a long time, desperate for Lance to kindly shut the fuck up. And now that he’s had even more to drink, he’s too far gone for Keith to control either of them. He looks around twenty times, making sure his boss isn’t somehow in the club, before grabbing his phone in his pocket. Then, he hesitates. 

 

Lance is swaying to the music on his stool, still flowing like the burning liquids in the bottles behind them despite his drunkenness. He looks like a tidal wave, or a hurricane- something so beautiful and simultaneously so destroyed. Keith’s time as a bartender has got him pretty sufficient when it comes to reading people, especially drunk people- and he can see the sadness that lurks something ugly behind Lance’s spontaneous faux pas. Thus, he should feel guilty- Lance was clearly torn up about Nyma, enough so that he was willing to smash himself without any supervision- but Keith is nothing if not stubborn, and depraved, and Lance is right there asking him to dance and flushed and sweaty and still so fucking pretty with those fucking eyes. 

 

_ No one’s dying tonight, _ he thinks, or something like that. 

 

He texts Pidge for a cover shift. 

 

“Lance! Let’s go.” He commands, and the words feel good on his tongue. Lance smiles wickedly, a look that says  _ I knew you’d give in  _ and Keith agrees. In some way, he knew he would too. 

 

“Hurry, before my jam comes on.” Lance slurs, holding on to the bar for support as Keith hangs his washrag up to dry. 

 

“You’d better hope I don’t get fired for this.” Keith says, slipping out from behind the bar to lead Lance to the dance floor, hand in shaky hand. 

 

Lance laughs. 

 

They burrow their way to the middle of the dance floor, and Keith wants to say it's because he doesn't want to get caught- but he doesn't think Lance would have it any other way, either. Only once they’re in the center does Lance release his hand. They lock eyes for a long moment, and Keith can see everything reflected back at him with a background of blue. Then, Lance starts dancing. 

 

Keith’s seen it all before, in fact it’s been all he’s thought about for the last few weeks- so why is it that much more spectacular to see in this moment?

 

Maybe because Lance is way too drunk to be able to retain that amount of coordination, keeping his body within the beat as he kicks and spins around. Or maybe because this time, it’s for Keith- no interruptions, no girlfriends, and no witnesses- just the two of them. 

 

Keith doesn’t dwell on it any longer, because he starts dancing, too. 

 

As he does, there’s no fleeting insecurities or doubts, no hanging questions or upended emotions, and no weight of the inescapable feeling that he should be doing anything else right now- it’s just dancing. 

 

It’s easy and simple, something he’s done a thousand times even if his partner has done it a thousand more. The only thing that isn’t drowned by the smoke machines or the light show or the impossibly louder music is a single question:

 

_ Does Lance make all his partners feel this good? _

 

He doesn’t know, and he certainly doesn’t care when Lance closes the small space between them, grabbing both of Keith’s palms as the electronic beat gives way to a rustic samba. Keith’s never done much more than step-touches and spins when it comes to real dancing, everything else under his belt falls under the umbrella of club dancing and grinding. Lance, on the other hand, is either a miraculously high-functioning drunk or sobers up completely at the switch of the song, because he’s suddenly at  _ home _ in the music. The rhythms are so familiar to him that Keith feels like  _ he _ knows them- and he’s starting to learn with the way Lance is transferring the movements through their clasped hands. 

 

“You ever danced to this before?” Lance presses his cheek to Keith’s to be heard, and somehow the proximity doesn’t make Keith go belly-up in his own head. 

 

“No.” He answers flatly, but he has an inkling of a feeling that Lance already knew that. 

 

The taller boy pulls back with a smirk, mouthing something like “I’ll teach you, then”, and Keith is swept into the rhythm by strong arms and moonlight eyes. 

 

It’s easy at first, letting Lance spin and shuffle him as he shimmies his shoulders loosely, moving how the music compels him to. Lance is smiling the whole time, hot hips rattling like a serpent’s tail as he sambas with Keith. They fall into step eventually- but Keith knows he’s still behind the beat by a hair, and he knows damn well why, too. 

 

Lance is still as mesmerizing as ever, as much a slave to the music as Keith is to the sight of him. Every few beats he spins out from Keith before reeling back in, or flourishes his arms dramatically, waving an imaginary blood-red dress with a flower in his hair, or drops to the floor before vibrating his hips all the way back up. Keith could almost faint if he himself wasn’t moving, palming over his own body and keeping his movements smooth and fluid,  _ sexy _ even- though he knows he’s got nothing on his partner. He imagines himself in high heels, because last time he did Pidge said it even made her blush a little, and it’s the most apt description he has for his own moves. 

 

The solos only ever last a few measures at a time; Keith can’t keep his hands off Lance for long, pulling him back so they can step and samba, chest to heaving chest. They move in sync, Lance stepping forward when Keith steps back, and then flipping a moment later. Keith nearly stops just to breathe, because this is Lance he’s dancing with.

 

_ Lance _ . 

 

A grin rips across his face when Lance spins him and dips him over his knee on the tail end of the song, and they’re both already gone when the next one introduces itself with a tremendous  _ pound pound pound _ . 

 

\--

 

_ Pound pound pound.  _

 

Lance falls out of sleep with a beat in his head, pushing at the fringes of his skull in steady crescendo. For a second, he thinks he’s passed out at the club again- but his eyes slide open and there’s searing yellow light, and a dull ache ripples across the front of his head. 

 

_ No,  _ he thinks,  _ but I am hungover. _

 

The pain is a heavy weight on his eyelids, a sign that he should probably roll over and go back to sleep. He resigns himself to that, but his damned eyes catch sight of the black nightstand next to him, with a glass of water and two painkillers, and the bare, sullen wall behind it, and  _ this is not my bed.  _

 

Brief panic cuts through him, taking his attention away from the headache, and he finally wakes fully, sitting up in the bed. He hasn’t gone home with someone in a long time, since before Nyma; he’d forgotten how uncomfortable it could be. 

 

He pushes the ramrod pain behind his eyes down, out of mind, as he debates what to do next. Should he try to leave without being noticed? Or pretend to be asleep until the other person goes out? 

 

Who did he even go home with last night? 

 

He presses the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, rubbing the sleepiness away. The bedsheets pool around his waist, and upon further inspection he also realizes he’s completely naked. On instinct, he scans the room for his clothes. 

 

_ Whoever lives here must be really hot, _ he thinks, because the room’s bareness is a reflection of their personality, in his limited exeprience. 

 

Other than black, modern nightstand on his left and the queen-size bed itself, the room only has a dresser with a TV on it and a rocking chair in the corner, piled high with clothes. The threadbare walls are a modest, faded peach, reminding Lance of the beachfront on the southside. The floor is cold hardwood. 

 

Straight in front of the bed, though, is an open door, and through it flows a cascade of humid sunlight and the soft, pulsating hum of music. Lance smiles in recognition, now painfully curious as to who he slept with. He presses his feet to the cold floor and gets out of bed. 

 

Halfway to the bathroom, wisps of steam and bossa nova take a backseat to finding some fucking pants, because Lance is no expert but walking in on your hook-up’s shower the morning after while butt naked was probably pretty unnerving. He pulls on a pair of boxer briefs from the pile on the rocking chair, noting that the person was probably male. 

 

The bathroom is quaint, a little grimy but more unkempt than dirty. The shower is running on his left, hogging most of the room from the toilet on the right. The sink must be in the corner, on the other end of the shower. 

 

Lance approaches it, peering around the off-white curtain hanging from the ceiling. 

 

“ _ Tall and tan and young and lovely _

_ The girl from Ipanema goes walking… _ ”

 

There’s a pale boy with a mess of black hair at the sink, singing along to the music as he sways his hips under the small white towel wrapped around his slim waist. Lance can’t take his eyes off the sight for a minute, entranced as the boy continues to sing. 

 

“ _ And when she passes, I smile, but she doesn't see~ _ ” 

 

Lance can’t help but imagine the boy as an angel, with a white towel as magnificent wings and a small, cracked window as a gateway to Heaven. The rays of sunlight continue to pour into the bathroom, providing a shimmer of light around the boy’s silhouette that’s only interrupted by the gentle, consistent wave of his hips. 

 

The events of the night before come swimming back to him slowly, like they’re stuck in molasses. 

 

_ Nyma dumped me- whatever. _

 

_ I went to the bar and got fucking smashed. _

 

_ I danced with-  _

 

“Keith?” He whispers, and the morning peace is shattered by a rather high-pitched scream from the angel in question. He winces in apology as Keith’s head whips around, wide-eyed. 

 

“Lance! You scared the shit outta me-” Keith starts, almost angrily- but he looks down to his naked body, and then to Lance’s, and a fervent blush swallows his features. “L-Lance, uh, morning? Are you wearing my underwear? Your clothes are-” 

 

“Shh, babe.” Lance chides, moving to stand in front of Keith. “I love this song.” 

 

“What?” Keith’s confused face is unfairly adorable, and Lance leans down automatically to press a kiss to Keith’s nose. “What are you-”

 

“Calm down, keep dancing. It’s hot.” Lance says, and he doesn’t know where the words are coming from- then again, he never does. 

 

_ Certainly not a normal hookup,  _ he realizes as Keith’s face works down gradually from confusion to pleasant surprise. 

 

“If I remember correctly,” Lance says as Keith returns to the mirror, “you and I danced the shit out of a samba last night.” 

 

The pale boy turns red again, clearing his throat. The music plays on in the background, reduced to a low hum. “Well, um, you danced it. I was just, like- there.” Keith’s words fall haphazardly from his mouth. 

 

“Yeah you were, and as a certified samba dancer I say you danced the shit out of it.” He wraps his arms around Keith’s stomach and pulls himself in, making eye contact through the stained mirror above the sink. 

 

“You were drunk out of your mind, Lance.” Keith says flatly, but the edges of his mouth perk up by a millimeter. 

 

“So? I know what I saw.” 

 

Something in the back of Lance’s mind is trying to tell him how weird this is, how odd that he’s treating a hookup like this, especially after Nyma- but he’s finding it hard to step back and analyze his behavior with Keith tracing his fingers over Lance’s forearms and leaning back into him like they’ve been together for months. 

 

_ We’ll figure it out.  _

 

“And what did you see, Lance?” Keith asks. 

 

“A mildly good dancing bartender who needs a few pointers from me.” 

 

He smiles when Keith twists out of his arms and pushes on his chest with a strong palm, trying to hide his smile under his behemoth bed hair. 

 

“Ass.” 

 

“Keith, don’t hurt me so.” Lance swoons, pressing a kiss to Keith’s knuckles and smiling more at how  _ easy _ this is. 

 

“Eat shit,” Keith replies, stopping the teasing to rub his hands along Lance’s collarbone. The smiles die down, replaced with something more serene as the song ends and begins again, playing on loop. “We’re in it now, huh?” 

 

“I guess so.” Lance agrees biting his lip. “What’s next?” 

 

“Well, I gotta shower, and then pick up some groceries-” 

 

“For us, Keith. What’s next for us.” Lance pokes his tongue between his teeth at his lover’s innocent blindness. 

 

“Oh…” Keith breathes, meeting Lance’s eyes. 

 

_ His eyes are purple. _

 

“I don’t really know. Let’s just wing it? You do owe me a date or two, I think.” Keith says after a minute, face unabashedly hopeful.

 

“Sounds good,” Lance nods, and another damn grin makes its way back to his face before he can even think. “Though really, last night was kind of a date, wasn’t it?” 

 

Keith scoffs, stepping out of the embrace and moving towards the shower. “Please. That was like, half a date, Lance. You owe me a full one.” Keith drops his towel and steps into the shower, smirking at Lance’s feigned sigh. 

 

“Fine, Keith.” Lance says over the sound of the running water. “But mathematically, wouldn’t I owe you another half date? Otherwise you’d have one and a half, and that seems kinda weird-” 

 

“Did you hear that, Lance? That’s the sound of all the maturity escaping this conversation.” Keith says back, and Lance lets out the first full-blown laugh of the morning. 

 

“I’m gonna find my clothes, hurry out.” Lance calls, moving for the door. 

 

“Wait, Lance?” Keith says, and Lance hesitates. 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“Can you turn the music up? Speaker’s on the sink.” 

 

Lance is still grinning as he fingers the pink little thing, wary of making it too loud. 

 

“ _ When she walks she's like a samba   _

_ That swings so cool and sways so gentle   _

_ That when she passes, each one she passes   _

_ Goes ‘Oooooh’”  _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> haha just some old WIP i dusted off and finished, hope it's not too shitty. Thanks for reading, comments and kudos make my day!!! :)


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